


Meet Me Tonight in Atlantic City

by theladyscribe



Series: Hockey WIP Amnesty [6]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Shakespeare, Alternate universe - Mafia, M/M, Philadelphia Flyers, Pittsburgh Penguins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 04:58:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15259917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/pseuds/theladyscribe
Summary: Claude catches the first bus he can get from Philly to Atlantic City, hot on the trail of his wayward friend and Wayne's dangerous liaison, armed with only a hotel name and a prayer that the Pens haven't found them first.





	Meet Me Tonight in Atlantic City

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a rarepairs treat for downjune, but I got stuck and it's been lingering ever since. I've finally given up the ghost on it, but I hope you enjoy what I wrote of it.
> 
> Title is from "Atlantic City" by Bruce Springsteen.

_Sidney waits on his balcony as arranged, miming the actions of reading a book by the light filtering out through the sliding door in case anyone happens to see him. His bag has already been stashed in the bushes below, ready when he is._

_He tries not to check the time too often, but it's nearing midnight, and the longer he waits, the more nervous he gets._

_He hears a car, and he holds his breath, but it passes on. He deflates a little and checks his watch again. Fifteen 'til. There's still time._

_Sidney is so engrossed in his worrying that he misses the first plink and skitter of gravel hitting the balcony. He notices the second, though, as it bounces against the side of the grill._

_Sidney stands and whistles in response. He drops his book on the lounge chair and peeks inside his room one last time, checking for anything he might have forgotten, turning out the lights, and making sure there's no one to witness his escape. There isn't, of course — his parents and grandparents and sister have long gone to bed. He says one last silent goodbye to Taylor and swings his legs over the balcony wall._

_"Easy, you're almost there," someone whispers below him, and Sidney drops the last couple feet to the ground._

_He turns to find Wayne grinning at him, teeth gleaming white in the dim light coming from the street lights. They kiss, briefly, and Wayne grabs his hand and leads him toward his waiting truck._

_They've got a long way to go._

***

Claude catches the first bus he can get from Philly to Atlantic City, hot on the trail of his wayward friend and Wayne's dangerous liaison, armed with only a hotel name and a prayer that the Pens haven't found them first. He's counting his blessings already, for once glad that he gave Wayne his credit card information years ago. The charge for a suite at the Surf Chalet may have him cursing a blue streak when he has to pay the bill in a couple weeks, but it's a head-start on his hunt. He'll take it.

The bus ride gives Claude a couple hours to compose his speech about why Wayne should ditch Crosby and come home, but he's no closer to something that sounds convincing when the bus pulls into the station than he was when he left Philadelphia.

It's a short walk from there to the Surf Chalet, a beachfront resort that has seen better days. Its exterior is a faded blue with a distinctly medieval turret over the loading zone. A sign advertises the hotel's Swiss spa and indoor ice skating rink. It's exactly the sort of campy tourist trap Claude would expect from Wayne, the kind of place the two of them might have spent their spring break in college, if Wayne hadn't gone straight into the family business and Claude hadn't followed him there.

Claude walks through the sliding glass doors, prepared to wing it, only to see Marc-Andre Fleury leaning against the check-in counter, smiling while the desk clerk fucking giggles at him.

It's been a long time since Claude last saw Marc. He takes in the flirty smile, the way Marc's eyes glitter as he talks to the desk clerk, his hair just this side of too long. Claude's eyes catch on his nimble fingers dancing along the edge of the counter, the tilt of his jaw, the lean of his body. Marc hasn't changed a bit.

Claude waits and watches the giggly clerk slide a room key that's an actual key over to Marc. As he steps away, the girl gestures to Claude to come up.

"I'm with him," he says, and Marc turns to see who spoke. His gaze sweeps over Claude, assessing him, or — more likely — judging him.

"You are," Marc says, not a question. "Let's go, Cheese."

Claude grits his teeth at the old nickname, but he walks as casually as he can behind Marc as they head toward the elevators.

When the doors close behind them, Marc turns to Claude and says, "We fucking get our guys and we go home, _ouai_? No need for this to get any messier than it already is."

Claude considers this for a moment. It's a much better offer than he'd be likely to get from anyone else affiliated with the Pens. It's maybe more generous than he personally would have been, but that's Marc for you.

"Deal," Claude says. They don't shake on it.

The elevator dings when they reach the fourteenth floor.

Marc leads the way, stopping at room 1418. "Think they're fucking?" he asks with a sly smirk.

"I hope not," Claude grumbles, holding his hand out for the key. Marc hands it over, and Claude knocks on the door. "Wayne? We're coming in."

Claude unlocks the door. He hesitates a moment, but there's no sound coming from the room, of people fucking or otherwise.

He pushes the door open and looks around. The room is as gaudy as the exterior of the hotel, the opulent palace motif on steroids. The bed is a four-poster, with curtains, and — Claude glances up — a mirrored ceiling. The walls are painted with faux stonework, the dim lamps are in iron sconces. There's an honest-to-god chaise longue upholstered in red velvet in one corner. Claude wonders if they'll find fake marble in the bathroom.

" _Câlisse_ ," Marc mutters from behind him. "They're not here."

Claude snorts. "From the looks of it, they've not been here at all." He nods toward the perfectly-made bed, the lack of bags or backpacks. He suspects that if they check the bathroom, the toilet paper end will still be folded into a triangle.

Marc swears again. "Where are they, then?"

Claude shrugs. "Another hotel? Out on the town? Maybe they're planning to come here later tonight?" He isn't very hopeful about that. He doesn't voice his suspicion that Wayne and Sidney never came to Atlantic City at all. That would mean they're really gone, with little to no hope of ever finding them.

"So now what?" Marc sits on the bed. "We just wait here? We go look for them? We knock on every hotel door in this fucking city?"

"If that's what it takes." Claude starts to pace, thinking.

There are the casinos, of course, but if Wayne and Crosby want to stay under the radar, they'll know to avoid anywhere with that many cameras and that much security. Besides, their families own most of the casinos in town — neither of them could go into one without being recognized immediately. That leaves, of course, the older hotels, like this one, the ones with enough pseudo-historical significance to have escaped being torn down to make room for yet another high-rise luxury resort. There aren't many of them, not anymore, but there are enough that it'll take them most of the afternoon to check each one.

And that's not even considering all the myriad nooks and crannies in this godforsaken city, the diners and clubs where two guys could hole up for most of a night if they wanted, the little alleyways where you could park a car in the shadows before skipping town at dawn.

Their search is totally fucked, is what Claude's thinking.

"We should split up," he says out loud. He looks at Marc, who's been watching him pace in silence. "One of us check the hotels, the other the casinos and boardwalk."

"No," Marc says, his voice firm. "We stick together. I'm not letting you find them first, drag Sid back to Philly so the Flyers can have a go at him." There's a threatening glint in his eye. "And you don't want me to find Wayne first."

Claude scowls, but Marc has a point. If they find them together, maybe they can resolve this peacefully. They fucking get their guys and go home, just like Marc said before.

" _Tabarnak_. Fuck. Okay," he says. "Let's go then."

They start with the hotels on the strip, each one looking more rundown than the one before it. Claude quickly loses count of how many desk clerks Marc sets off giggling at jokes that weren't funny the first time he heard them. They all turn up nothing, no check-ins under either Wayne or Crosby's name or any of their known fake IDs or even two men matching their descriptions.

It's maddening, and when Claude and Marc leave the Sand Dollar Palace, Claude finally loses it. "I'm done with the hotels," he announces. "I'm fucking headed for the boardwalk."

He expects Marc to put up a fight, but instead, he says, "Thank fuck," and jogs to catch up to Claude.

The boardwalk is mostly empty, the breeze off the ocean chilly as the sun sets. It's cold, even for April, and Claude pulls his coat collar up to block the wind.


End file.
